


Your feet above the ground

by Phantomato



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Swap, Fluff, Gratuitous Swearing, How can they even flirt with their own face??, I mean these boys are their bodies, M/M, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28878954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomato/pseuds/Phantomato
Summary: And if he’d attended potions, and couldn’t remember anything, and was now groggy and prone in front of multiple professors in the Hogwarts infirmary, that could only mean one thing: potions accident.
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Comments: 21
Kudos: 117





	Your feet above the ground

**Author's Note:**

> I took this idea for a body swap AU from a [tumblr post](https://mxrcusflint.tumblr.com/post/630880049275486208/ive-been-wanting-to-write-more-flintwood-myself), full credit to the OP for the inspiration. 
> 
> Body swap is a fantastic premise for these two. They’re so physical. They are their bodies. I haven’t yet seen a depiction of Flintwood that totally sidesteps their physicality, and that set me to thinking—what happens if they can’t access that part of themselves? I address some of that, but this is primarily a bit of fluff with too many instances of “fuck,” some crude references to dicks, and a very large departure from my usual beat of intellectual wank. I hope you enjoy it.

The low, concerned murmurs surrounding Marcus settled into focus as he felt himself swim up through the fog of unconsciousness.

“They’re waking up now…” a female voice drifted into his head, and he just barely had enough presence of mind to wonder who else was with him.

He couldn’t remember much. Last he was awake, it was some horrid midweek day—Wednesday?—so he would have had potions practical. All that mattered was that it wasn’t a weekend, and he hadn’t gotten in a chance to fly yet this week. Had he been to potions or skived off? Probably attended, he thought, Snape had been adamant that his quidditch captain needed to actually pass his courses this year. Warrington had been assigned to mind him and hustle him to most of his classes, now that Higgs had graduated, graduated like Marcus should’ve done, if he hadn’t been such a fucking failure.

And if he’d attended potions, and couldn’t remember anything, and was now groggy and prone in front of multiple professors in the Hogwarts infirmary, that could only mean one thing: potions accident. He groaned.

“Oh, good,” he heard Professor Snape’s distinctive drawl. “That would be Mr. Flint.”

What the fuck did that mean?

Marcus opened his eyes and moved to rub the sleep out of them but came up short when he saw his hands.

They were not his hands.

These hands were tanned, freckled, and though male, smaller than his own. Messier, too—callused and winter-dry, like these hands belonged to someone who never learned to look after himself.

“What the fuck,” he said inelegantly.

Only, it wasn’t him who said it. He felt his mouth move, knew he had spoken, but that voice was—

“What the _fuck_ ” came barrelling out of the person in the bed next to him in _Marcus’_ voice.

“Mr. Wood, language!” admonished Professor McGonagall, that old bat, and Marcus couldn’t help but snicker. Gryffindors were so strangely uptight. Except his snicker sounded weird, unpracticed, and Marcus nearly choked when the implications of their exchange hit him. 

He almost didn’t want to turn his head, but he had to know. He had to. 

And, oh _fuck_ , it was his worst fear. Marcus Flint was sitting in the bed next to him, staring at him with a dumbstruck expression on a face that Marcus almost exclusively saw in a mirror. He looked down at himself again, just as his doppleganger did the same, and confirmed that his body—masculine and broad, but tanned and different—was not his own.

“Yes, Mr. Wood, Mr. Flint, it’s what you’re thinking.” Madam Pomfrey addressed them directly. If there was one person in this bloody castle that Marcus trusted implicitly, it was Poppy Pomfrey. Snape was a good head of house, he was a level sort of man, but Pomfrey saw Marcus through everything. He spent more time in the infirmary than Harry fucking Potter, between his brawls and quidditch, and she knew every inch of Marcus. When this woman said something, Marcus might grumble, he might be upset, but he fundamentally believed her. His gut sank heavily inside of him.

“You’ve swapped bodies.” Blunt, as always. Bless her, Madam Pomfrey would tell it to you straight when your bones were popping out of your skin. “It happens at least once a year, because someone refuses to change his curriculum and newt eyes are a highly reactive ingredient.” She spoke with the sort of well-worn anger of a long-simmering argument, and Marcus watched Snape shift slightly where he stood. 

The beleaguered professor cut in before the matron could escalate. “Be that as it may, I’ve begun the potion that will remedy your situation. You will be restored to your bodies in a week.”

“A _week?_ ” Marcus’ own voice screeched from beside him and he felt himself blush in embarrassment. It was a strange, distant feeling; Marcus never blushed. He was incredible at keeping his composure, but he knew, from years of fighting, that Oliver Wood turned red at anything. The boy was terminally incapable of keeping his emotions off of his face, and now, apparently, so was Marcus. 

“Yes, Mr. Wood, a week,” McGonagall scolded. “Neither of you have anything significant in either your academic or athletic schedules for the next week. As your heads of house, Severus and I ensured that this would not unduly impact your schooling.” She glared down at both of them, her severe expression magnified by her sharp spectacles. Marcus had always disliked her; she held her house quidditch rivalry against him in class, he knew it. He’d dropped transfiguration after OWLs. “We expect you to handle this maturely. There’s never been a case during our tenure of this happening between two students with quite so much… history, but we will not tolerate any disrespect from either of you when you are using the other’s body.”

The weight of a week spent as Oliver Wood began to settle on Marcus and he felt his breathing speed up. He couldn’t be Wood. Wood was in more NEWT classes, he was smarter, he had friends—he was friends with all of the _Gryffindor quidditch team_ , Merlin, was he going to have to laugh with those Weasley twins? Pretend like he didn’t want to punch the lights out of Prissy Percy? Next to him, he could hear the sound of himself beginning to hyperventilate, and the eeriness of that set him to further panic.

“Boys!” Madam Pomfrey rushed between them, looking to soothe. “You aren’t swapping lives.” More quietly, she bemoaned, “Why don’t we ever lead with that?”

“Indeed,” Snape cut in. “Mr. Flint, Mr. Wood, after you exchange what you need for the week, you’ll go back to your houses as normal. The professors and student heads have already been notified of the situation, while you were unconscious, and we require that you be honest with your fellow students as necessary. Mr. Flint, I will assist you in notifying your roommates.”

“So we’re supposed to just… pretend like everything’s normal?” Marcus finally asked, feeling, once again, the strange sensation of Wood’s voice speaking his own thoughts. 

“Yes,” Snape said simply. 

The despairing question that came from Oliver Wood shouldn’t have surprised anyone, and yet: “How will I run practice?,” in Marcus’ own goddamned _voice_ , set him to hysterical laughter.

* * *

Marcus-as-Oliver and Oliver-as-Marcus exchanged enough clothing to last each other a week and retreated to their respective dorms for the evening. Luckily, they wore the same size of outer robe, so both could retain their house colors for the duration of this trial. They’d missed most of Wednesday while unconscious in the infirmary, and for both boys, the prospect of real sleep and the ability to forget this incredibly awkward predicament was too much to resist.

Oliver had an easier go of the first night. Percy Weasley was the only other seventh-year Gryffindor boy and, as Head Boy, he had already been briefed on the situation before Oliver was forced to talk with him. Oliver only had to groan in Marcus’ rumbling, deep voice to convey his existential dismay to his friend, and Percy left him alone. The quidditch team would need to be dealt with eventually, but they had the decency to give him some space on the first night.

Marcus’ dorm was filled with his team members when he came back for the evening. Since Higgs had graduated last year, every boy was younger than him—in most cases, significantly so—but his team was his crew. He had given all of them their spot on the team during his first year as captain. They respected Marcus enough to confront him.

Adrian Pucey, even as a reserve chaser, was the unofficial spokesperson for the group. “Wood, then,” he prodded Marcus. Montague, Warrington, Bole, Derrick, and Bletchley were circled around Marcus’ bed, and the seventh-year Slytherin boys had been evicted from the room. Malfoy was also barred from the discussion on account of him being a prat, but Montague or someone would fill him in later.

“Wood,” Marcus grunted in affirmation. It came out all wrong, almost soft, in this strange body. He looked down at his tan, freckled, borrowed hands to ground himself.

“That’s fucked up,” Bletchley crudely offered. At least three other boys cuffed him for the remark, even if they’d all been thinking it.

Pucey quieted the crowd and asked, “Is there a plan, captain?”

And what the fuck could Marcus say? He didn’t fancy hurting himself just to leave Wood with a new scar when he got his body back. That was the rub: he didn’t have Wood, he had Wood’s _body_ , but it was his own body for the time being. He was the one vulnerable if they tried to pull something on Wood before their bodies could be swapped back. 

That was fucked up.

“No,” Marcus finally grunted out in that too-mellow voice. He longed for the grating harshness of his own body. “Fuck off,” he commanded his team, and they did as they were ordered.

Oliver had his reckoning over breakfast the next morning. The twins looked positively sinister, wearing matching expressions of gleeful malice, and in that moment, he realized the impossibility of hiding Marcus Flint’s body behind Katie Bell.

“Cut it out,” Angelina warned the two boys. “He’s still Oliver,” the dark-haired girl insisted, though her expression betrayed some uncertainty.

Oliver attempted a charming smile. The muscles in his face felt stiff and Alicia went pale.

“Yeah, maybe don’t?” she suggested, offering him a placating pat on the arm. Her hand looked impossibly tiny on Marcus’ thick forearm, and Alicia was not a petite girl. She wasn’t a Gryffindor chaser for nothing; Marcus was just huge. Oliver and the girls spent about a minute just staring at the comparison.

“So, then,” Fred began.

“Will you be telling us about Flint’s other qualities?” George finished his brother’s thought. Fred winked outrageously and ducked Angelina’s attempt to whack him.

“Always wondered what a bloke like Marcus must look like,” Fred nearly shouted from his sheltered position under the table.

“Where it counts, you know,” George smirked as he continued. “You must’ve peeked, yeah?”

Angelina looked murderous as she stood from her seat. “That is it!” she shouted at the twins, and Oliver had never been more thankful for Gryffindor’s reputation for causing a ruckus over nothing. Nobody had yet turned to stare. “You can’t go around _asking_ Oliver those kinds of things!”

Katie leaned over to him while their friend continued to tear into the twins and whispered, “Definitely don’t tell Fred and George, but between us… have you?”

Oliver didn’t turn red, because apparently Marcus Flint wasn’t cursed with the same traitorous need to blush at minor upsets. At least this body was good for something. However, he did stand up so sharply that he pushed the entire bench back, sending Katie and Alicia sprawling forward into their plates. He was too busy storming away and avoiding the eyes that had started to gather on him to respond to their shouts of surprise.

The very last voice he wanted to hear caught up with him just as he exited the Great Hall.

“That was almost convincingly me,” Marcus Flint spoke with Oliver’s brogue.

It was fucking surreal to face his own body. Marcus was leaning nonchalantly on the wall, something approximating a smirk on his face, and the whole effect was disconcerting. Oliver Wood did not make an effective Slytherin. He could tell his body was unpracticed with the motions. It was embarrassing. 

“What do you want, Flint?” 

“C’mon, Oliver,” Marcus cajoled. “I’ve seen your dick. I think you can call me Marcus.”

Oliver sputtered indignantly, completely unable to process what he’d just heard. “What the _fuck_ , Flint?” he demanded, menacing the other boy with the advantage of his larger frame. He felt how naturally his hands tightened into fists, how his knees bent into a fighting stance, and itched to give his rival a taste of his own medicine.

Marcus held up his hands in a placating gesture, still far too calm for Oliver’s liking. It did serve to remind Oliver that, as much as he’d like to punch the lights out of Marcus Flint, he didn’t quite want to live with the permanent damage. “Relax,” Marcus insisted, “I’ve _showered_. I hope you’re doing that much for my body.”

Oliver had showered. He had. He’d just… not looked down. Locker room rules: eyes up. It was easier to touch this body if he didn’t look at the dissonance while he was doing so. Everything felt different—his muscles worked in a different way, he moved a bit like an overgrown toddler—but at least the sensation of touching his own arm or what-have-you was the same. He belatedly insisted that “of course I’ve showered,” but it sounded lame even to his own ears. 

“Well, then. It’s Marcus.” Marcus shifted on his feet, a gesture that looked much more natural for Oliver Wood’s body, and muttered, “And don’t be so bloody awkward about this. You can… look, when you’re borrowing me.”

Oliver gaped unattractively. The expression would be unflattering on either body. 

“Don’t!” Marcus thundered as he attempted a sharp glare. “Can’t have you tripping over your own feet in the shower. My nose’s been broken enough. Fuck.” 

“Fuck,” Oliver echoed, appreciating how Marcus’ voice carried the word. 

Classes moved at a snail’s pace that first day. Oliver kept to himself, biding time in the back corner of each room in order to avoid as many curious stares as possible. He didn’t really expect to keep the news of his body switch from the entire seventh year, but he hoped to avoid providing further gossip fodder. Marcus’ body was too big to hide, and he found himself wondering if Marcus-as-Oliver was having much more luck. Oliver’s height and broad shoulders had never felt like an obstacle to him, not with his friendly and modest reputation, but he doubted that Marcus felt invisible today, even if he’d lost a couple inches and 20 pounds. 

His skin was prickling with the uncomfortable weight of others’ stares by dinnertime, and Oliver felt like he was about to vibrate out of his body. Driven by that discomfort, too restless to unwind, he rushed Marcus as the other boy left the hall.

“Flint—Marcus—wait up!” Oliver called in a hushed but urgent voice, nervous that someone might be watching them for a confrontation. The corridor was empty for now. 

Marcus stopped but didn’t look at him. “What is it?”

“Er, you want to meet up in the library later? After my practice?” he asked the other boy’s stiff back.

It was a bold question. They were not friends. Neither were they the type of students to frequent the library. Really, on all counts, the request should have failed, and Oliver hastened to explain himself.

“It’s just. You’re not staring at me, y’know?”

To Oliver’s eternal surprise, Marcus scuffed his heel along the floor and turned. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, okay. Half eight?”

“Aye,” Oliver could only confirm.

Practice was barely not a waste of time. Oliver got on a broom but refused to play keeper, unwilling to either embarrass himself in this unfamiliar body or injure it and earn Madam Pomfrey’s displeasure. The twins weren’t able to focus, too preoccupied with their lewd remarks about Oliver’s predicament, and so it was just Harry practicing on his own and the chasers flying formations while Oliver coached. 

He opted to shower back in the dorms, where he could be assured that he was _alone_. He still couldn’t bring himself to look below Marcus’ waist, not after an hour of crude jokes at his expense. The mockery was starting to feel like a personal affront—sure, he wanted his usual self back, but it wasn’t right to make fun of the guy whose appearance he was borrowing.

Marcus had spread out over a table in a back section of the library when Oliver arrived, his neutered glower apparently still strong enough to drive off firsties. Oliver plopped himself down in the next chair over, wincing a bit when the drop was further than expected.

“Watch it,” Marcus warned without real bitterness. He looked like he had no energy for much of anything today.

“Slytherins give you trouble?” Oliver decided to ask, figuring he might as well talk if he was going to be here.

The other boy grunted softly. “They know I could still beat ‘em. You’re not completely pathetic.” Oliver laughed quietly at the unexpected compliment, though the sound came out more sinister than he’d intended. Merlin, it was like Marcus’ body was perpetually set to ‘mean git.’ “It’s the girls.”

The whispered admission knocked Oliver back. “The _girls_?”

Marcus rolled his eyes, the borrowed soft brown irises only just managing to convey the strength of his dismissal. “Oh, come off it. You know every bird, even in Slytherin, fancies you.”

“Well, okay, but—”

“ _But_ they think they’ll get a shot at shagging _Ollie_ this week, with you out of the saddle.” Oliver watched in fascination as Marcus’ cheeks turned a flaming red. How the tables had turned! He realized in a sickening flash of insight that he would have a uniquely accurate read on Marcus Flint’s emotions for the duration of this swap.

Still, he needed to be sure of one thing. “You won’t do that to my body, though. Right?” Perhaps it was a foolish hope, but he could probably report to McGonagall if something actually happened.

Marcus’ face stayed beet red even as he flattened his mouth into a line. “Wouldn’t,” he grit out. “Not with a bird.” Clearly embarrassed, Marcus rushed to keep talking, as though more words might somehow fix the situation. “Wouldn’t want a bloke who only wanted you, either.”

“Er. Right. Yeah,” Oliver mumbled into the space between them, near enough to stunned by the frankness of Marcus’ confession. “I—I won’t either,” he stammered after a beat, realizing he should reciprocate.

The other boy scoffed, clearly disbelieving. “Yeah, like anyone’d want that.”

Before he could stop himself, Oliver huffed indignantly, his fingers tapping a frantic rhythm on the wooden table. “You’re not—that is, er—oh, fuck. You’re fit. Plenty of blokes would—”

Thankfully, Marcus cut off his rambling with a grunt before he could say anything too personally revealing about just how fit Oliver thought Marcus Flint really was. There was a reason that he hadn’t yet been able to look at himself in the shower. He knew, he _knew_ , that it would happen this week, and he’d have to live with that knowledge forever.

“I really want to punch you right now,” Marcus interrupted almost amiably.

Oliver couldn’t help it. He laughed, barking out loudly enough to earn a shush from Madam Pince. “Fuck, aye, I do too,” he agreed. “But I don’t want to hit my own mug.”

Marcus only nodded, but even he had a lopsided smile on his face. 

“It’s been nice,” Oliver said in lieu of starting a fistfight, “I haven’t really been unhappy about not being in my own body since getting here.”

After a beat, Marcus admitted, “Yeah. Easier to do when my other half is here.”

Oliver’s eyes went as wide as saucers and Marcus, with only the shortest pause, flushed red again as he stammered out, “I—I mean, my body, not— _fuck_.”

The slow, creeping smile fit easily onto Oliver’s borrowed face as he mocked, “Don’t go getting all sweet on me, Marc.”

“Fuck off, _Ollie_ ,” he spat back. “I hope your practice was shit.”

“Shite,” Oliver corrected automatically. “You’ve got my brogue, now, might as well use it.”

“Was it shite, then?” Marcus pulled a face over the unfamiliar swear. Englishmen, really.

“ _Utter_ shite,” Oliver confirmed. “Didn’t want to keep, y’know, no point. This body moves differently. The twins are as bad as your Slytherin birds must be.” When Marcus looked disgusted, Oliver clarified, “Nah, not a fancy, they just want a peek under the covers. I’m gonna be dodging them all week. So it was just the girls practicing their passes and Harry on the snitch, which is nothing, really. Dunno why I bothered.” He frowned, mentally recalculating his training schedule for the remaining time before their next game. 

“We could _try_ flying.” Marcus’ words caught him off-guard, but he leaned forward to listen to the other boy. “It’s—you’re built like a chaser, yeah? Lighter than me. And I’m more like most keepers. And, well, it’s not like we’d ever get another chance, right?”

Oliver’s mind started whirring, filled with visions of trying quidditch strategies that hadn’t worked for him in the past. “Marcus, you’re brilliant,” he whispered excitedly, not missing the way the other boy blushed crimson. He really should learn to control himself better when he got his body back. “Match this weekend? Saturday morning? It’s just over a day, but I think I’ll have enough time to plan a strategy, will you? I’ll keep and you chase, no sense tracking points, let’s just see what we can do. Merlin, this might be the best thing ever. I bet there’s a few things I can take back to my own body!” He babbled for another half an hour until Pince kicked them out ahead of curfew, and as they gathered up their bags to leave, Oliver realized he’d actually enjoyed the time together.

Still animated by a rousing discussion of quidditch, Oliver interrupted Marcus before he could leave. “Hey,” he reached out to place his hand on the other boy’s arm—his own arm, really, “Same time here tomorrow night?” Marcus looked at him strangely. “It’s only, I don’t really want to be prodded at in the common room, yeah?”

Slowly, Marcus nodded, and Oliver didn’t even try to stop his smile. “Yeah, okay. Half eight.”

* * *

Marcus was trying not to be weird about the whole body thing, really. He just. He noticed Oliver fucking petting his own arm—Marcus’ arm—in potions on Friday. More than petting, even; the other boy was delicately tracing his veins up the swell of his muscle and down the soft, sensitive flesh of his wrist. Marcus knew how that would make him shiver.

And then Oliver kept doing it all through their time in the library. Hands on his own arms, mindlessly exploring _Marcus_ even as he chattered about quidditch strategies for tomorrow’s unofficial matchup. It wasn’t like Marcus was completely incapable of thinking, distracted as he was by Oliver; he sketched his own plays. It was just that he couldn’t turn off the part of his brain that kept reminding him of those soft touches, so familiar, so easy to imagine, and their fuckling _implications_.

Which was probably why he found himself staring at Oliver Wood’s naked body, later that night, in the locked seventh-year Slytherin boys’ bathroom. 

Oliver was fucking gorgeous.

Anyone with eyes could have said as much, but most people with eyes hadn’t gotten to look at him like this. In front of a full-length mirror, Marcus found himself speechless and absolutely awed by the long, lean, strong body that stared back at him. Oliver’s skin was entrancing, speckled with small moles and freckles blending into his lively tan. His hair was soft, curled, and a tawny brown, almost red on his chin and blond in the highlights. Marcus wanted to… to pet himself, to feel his fucking calves and the swell of his thighs and, _Merlin_ , the plush roundness of his arse.

And his fucking cock! Marcus was obviously aroused. Oliver, especially divorced from his incessant, eager _competitiveness_ , was inherently arousing. His prick was long and angled slightly to the right and just as happy to flush pink and red as his fucking adorable cheeks. Marcus had tried to have a wank, looking at the mirage-like image of Oliver Wood, only… it felt weird. He could’ve gotten off, if he’d kept at it, but the sensation was different than he was used to, and he couldn’t get out of his own head. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that this wasn’t his dick, he shouldn’t be wanking Oliver’s cock, they had _decidedly not_ talked about rules for this, and so he couldn’t finish it. Too fucking weird.

Instead, Marcus just stared at his borrowed, gorgeous, devastating, totally out-of-reach body. Like a fucking creeper.

Meanwhile, Oliver had no such compunctions. Marcus’ remark from the other day hadn’t left him alone. He was allowed to _look_ , and once he’d started looking—in the shower, Friday morning, only so he didn’t trip over his feet and break Marcus’ nose—he couldn’t stop. 

Like, when was someone going to tell him about Marcus’ arms? They were huge, yes, but so lean that all the veins stood out, highlighting the ferocious muscle that the other boy had worked to build. And his wrists, oh fuck, his wrists, they were so sensitive. The lightest brush of his own fingertips over the soft skin of his inner forearms sent a pleasurable chill through his entire borrowed body. He could only begin to imagine the real Marcus Flint reacting like that.

In the library, Marcus kept blushing as he looked over at Oliver’s mindless touching. Oliver couldn’t find that cute, really, because it was his own face—but if he allowed himself to project, to fantasize about that, knowing it was really Marcus’ reaction, he liked it a lot more.

Marcus was fucking fit. Big, broad, brutish, and brooding. He was a darkly glowering, angry fright of a man, someone who looked like he could rip your head from your shoulders and, frankly, he had tried as much with Oliver before. It was hot enough in a fucked-up sort of way, good for a one-off wank, but knowing that Marcus could be sensitive, too? Oliver was fucking _gone_.

In bed that night, curtains drawn and silencing charm laid securely around him, Oliver gave this body a go.

He grabbed his thick, hot, pale cock—red only where it _counted_ —in one brawny fist, slicked the fingers of the other to penetrate himself, and went for it. His arse clenched and sucked at the intrusion, one finger enough to set him panting and planting his feet on the bed for leverage as he thrust back against himself. He let the hand on his prick hold loosely, just enough for pressure with every jerk of his hips, edging fucking closer as his arousal built.

Oliver thought of Marcus. Marcus, sprawled and naked on Oliver’s Gryffindor bed, like he was now. Marcus, grunting lowly as Oliver prepped him, and fucking screaming when it was Oliver’s cock inside of him. He imagined Marcus throwing his head back in wordless pleasure as Oliver fucked him and placed fluttery kisses on his soft, sensitive wrists, and—Oliver came hard, his deep, foreign groan prolonging the fantasy.

He was hot, sweaty, sticky, and very content as he fell asleep.

* * *

Oliver and Marcus were both early to the pitch on Saturday. They flew warmups silently, separately; Marcus personified speed as he raced his Nimbus under the lighter weight of Oliver’s body and Oliver exemplified strength as he maneuvered Marcus’ body around his Cleansweep. Half an hour later, with loose muscles and the prickling beginnings of sweat on their skin, they brought out the quaffle. 

Marcus’ speed gave him an early edge. Oliver expected to reach his hoops sooner, accustomed to his old form, and quaffles would sail past his outstretched hand by entire feet. The Nimbus had already made Marcus fast; his lightness and slimness made him breathtaking. He sank four balls through the hoops before Oliver was able to stop one, each attempt making Oliver’s head spin as he learned to anticipate the chaser’s rapid movements.

“You’re a fucking menace, Marcus,” he yelled as the fourth goal streamed just past his reach.

On the fifth attempt, Oliver sent the ball flying away with a glancing blow from his massive hand. He froze in mid-air, stunned to stillness. He’d never had the strength to bat a quaffle so far.

“Fuck me.”

Marcus’s eyes lit up and he didn’t stop a grin from forming. “I am impressive, aren’t I? Think I’ll take a pass on your offer ‘til I get my body back, though.”

Oliver laughed and rallied, beginning to throw his weight around. The boys traded successes, Marcus now having to fight for each goal as Oliver blocked shots bodily or used his mass to whip the tail of his broom around with enough force to shoot the quaffle into the stands opposite. Marcus couldn’t resist a shouted “Nice work!” as he raced to retrieve the ball. They were sweating in earnest, focused glares narrowing so that only their match existed.

Their audience filtered in after the first ten minutes of play. Adrian had seen action on the pitch from the windows of the Great Hall, and the Weasley twins had followed when the entire Slytherin quidditch team, sans Marcus-as-Oliver, headed outside as a group. The small crowd of rival teams was quiet at first, milling but not mixing. Eventually, they seemed to realize that without their volatile captains, and with Malfoy and Potter safely distanced, there wouldn’t be any fighting. They began to comment.

“Woah!” Angelina was the first to break the silence, her expression of surprise followed by the Gryffindor team’s cheers. “Ollie body-checked that quaffle halfway across the pitch!”

Behind her, someone laughed. “I’ve seen Flint do that to another flyer before,” Warrington gloated. “Wood should see how far he can send Flint spinning.”

The Gryffindors looked torn between amusement and fear, imagining both Marcus being tossed around like a rag doll and Oliver’s poor body taking the beating. A vicious goal, Marcus shooting the quaffle at a hoop so fast that it ripped through Oliver’s fingers, distracted them again and sent a low murmur of appreciation through both sides of the crowd.

“Why hadn’t I heard about this happening before?” Montague wondered aloud as he followed Marcus’ strafing movements with his eyes. “Flint said the matron said it happened every year.”

Alicia piped up quickly. “It happened to two Hufflepuff girls last year. I knew the girls. They were friends, though, and it didn’t really impact anything? I dunno, it’s only a week.” Fred and George shared a suspiciously mischievous look and Angelina boxed the nearest twin’s ears.

“So, just bad luck that it was Flint and Oliver, then?” Katie asked from the other side of the commotion.

“I don’t know about that,” Adrian answered, turning back to the match.

Both boys were great flyers—definitely good enough to go pro after school—but watching them experience the wondrous joy of experimenting out on the pitch, with nothing but love of the game hanging in the balance, was entirely new. No house points were on the line. No quidditch standing was at risk. Fuck, even care of their own body was out of their hands, and in that tenuous, temoporary trust, they found release.

More than one person in the gathered crowd felt like their presence almost violated the sanctity of the match. Watching the boys in the air, focused on nothing but sport and pushing themselves to new limits, was an intrusion on—intimacy, really. Surprising none of the Slytherins and most of the Gryffindors, it was observant, soft-hearted Adrian who called for them to head back just as the pace of the match began to slow, Oliver and Marcus heaving and panting more obviously.

Oliver launched himself at Marcus when they landed. His great bulk dominated the other boy’s smaller body, and grabbing Marcus behind the neck, he brought their heads together before letting out a primal shout, a guttural, indistinct cry of energetic elation. It was _better_ than winning a match, because Oliver and Marcus were of a shared feeling—as much as either needed to win, they needed to _fly_ even more. Today, nominally facing each other but really competing against themselves, they had been free to revel in flight. 

It was indescribable. It was unique. It was intoxicating, dangerously seductive to envision a world where they hadn’t needed to switch bodies to get here, to be screaming in each others’ faces, foreheads plastered with sweaty hair pressed together and arms grasping.

When they ran into each other on the pitch the next day, it wasn’t truly a surprise.

“Thought you’d be okay with me taking your body for another fly,” Oliver scuffed his over-large feet in the grass, holding his Cleansweep behind his neck. “After—yeah. Yesterday.”

“Guess I am.” Marcus aimed for inscrutability, but Oliver could read his own face and saw the signs of amusement.

“Guess so,” Oliver smiled, and they took off.

* * *

They planned their flying on Monday evening, going so far as to drop their kit bags in the same locker room. What did privacy mean when your companion wore your body, anyway?

“What’re you doin’ to my lips, there, Marcus?” Oliver prodded the other boy when they were washing up afterward, pausing the drag of his comb through his hair. That dark, choppy hair hadn’t looked so proper since Marcus’ mother still styled it.

Marcus, tin of lip balm in his hand, shrugged and continued his own routine. “Taking care of your skin, you daft knob. It’s dry out. Don’t you look after yourself?” He knew the answer, of course; chapped lips and split knuckles had one obvious explanation.

“Huh.” Oliver picked at the dry skin of his calluses and Marcus winced. He did not want to deal with that in a few days. After only a moment of hesitation, he dug a tub of moisturizer out of his bag and tossed it over.

“Stop fucking up my hands,” he grunted as Oliver made the catch. “Rub this on.”

Oliver laughed, a low, rumbling thing, completely taken aback at the show of solidarity between them. “Marcus Flint, you fucking ponce!”

“Better’n feeling my skin fall off every year, dumbarse,” Marcus argued back, and maybe it was his insistence, or maybe it was the novelty of the situation, but Oliver actually listened and slathered on the cream.

“It’s sticky,” he immediately complained.

“Give it a minute. It dries,” Marcus huffed as he took the tub back and massaged balm into his padding-chafed shoulders. 

Oliver wiggled impatiently, his hands in the air as he waited for the tackiness to fade. “You do this, like, every day?”

“Yep.”

“Explains why you’re so fucking smooth.”

“The fuck?” Marcus attempted to raise a single eyebrow, and only managed to send both up in an expression that looked more like earnest surprise than sneering disbelief.

“Your skin. You’re, like, really smooth.” Oliver was gesturing oddly to himself, as though Marcus needed a reminder that he didn’t have his own body right now. “I thought only girls were that smooth? Like it was a hormone thing. Nope. Just moisturizer, or whatever.”

Marcus blinked. “You’re fuckin’ weird, Oliver.”

* * *

Tuesday was their final evening in each others’ bodies and they spent it in one of the changing rooms. Marcus dragged in an extra chair from the other changing room, saving them from the stiff indignity of the wooden benches. They slouched together, feet propped on lockers and those benches, in the stale warmth of their quidditch retreat.

“What’ll you do when we’re back to normal?” Oliver asked, the synthetic light of the industrial fixtures washing out his features as he spoke.

Marcus contemplated his borrowed hands for one of the last times, observing how his tan faded to a mere suggestion in the overly-bright room. “Dunno. Shove Malfoy, I suppose.”

Oliver laughed, easily accepting the suggestion. “What’d he do, then?”

“The usual shit. Opened his mouth and spoke,” Marcus grunted. “He’s too cocky about his matchup with Potter, especially now that you’ve got that Firebolt.”

“We’re gonna wipe the floor with you in the finals,” Oliver promised good-naturedly while wearing a smile. It looked off on Marcus’ face, but the sentiment was there. “Anyway,” he cut in again before Marcus could argue the point, “aren’t you gonna ask what I’ll do?”

Playing the game, Marcus slapped his hand against the armrest and repeated, “What’ll you do, then?”

“Mmm,” Oliver pretended to think, fingers drumming on his chin. “Hit on some girls ‘cause I’ll be pretty again.”

Marcus tossed a pad at Oliver in mock offense. “Wanker,” he cursed out the other boy.

“Okay, maybe not,” Oliver said as he ducked the pad. “I think I’ll fly. I want to feel the difference, y’know? Hey—” he leaned forward, grabbing the arm of Marcus’ chair, near the other boy’s hand, “—any chance you’d let me borrow your Nimbus for a bit? You looked really fast up there, and I thought—”

“Fucking hell, Wood,” Marcus shoved Oliver away by the shoulder, “Is there anything other than flying in that pretty little head of yours?”

“So you _do_ agree I’m the pretty one!” Oliver crowed victoriously as he was sent sprawling backward. 

“Not much point disputing that,” Marcus grumbled, but the heat wasn’t in him to really argue and he slouched back into his chair.

Undeterred, Oliver pushed for more. “You gonna miss it, then?”

“Being pretty?” Marcus paused for effect, examining his nails, ruffling his curly hair, before dismissing the accusation. “Nah. I’ve got your attention, yeah? Biggest sports rivals at Hogwarts maybe ever. That’s way more interesting.”

“Fucking aye, much better,” Oliver agreed with a hearty slap on Marcus’ shoulder. “Which team’s scouting you?”

“What?” 

“League team, Marc. Where’re you playing after this? I’m headed to Puddlemere. It’s a good offer on a good team. I feel lucky,” Oliver babbled in his excitement. “Only got a contract for the reserves, but the keeper’s been playing for over a decade and I figure he’ll retire soon enough. I could make first-string by 20, 21!”

“You’re just assuming, then?” Marcus shot back, a bit offended that he would only be good enough for quidditch. Then again, in Oliver Wood’s eyes, perhaps that was intended as a compliment.

“Nothing else is worth doing, yeah?”

A pause. “Yeah.” Marcus felt a slow smile spreading across his face and failed to bite it back. Oliver was unbelievably mad for quidditch, but maybe Marcus was too. “Yeah. Okay, fine. I’m headed to Montrose’s reserves.”

“Fuck!” Oliver exclaimed, sitting upright with a start, his feet falling to the floor with a dull slap of leather against tile. “You got Montrose? They’re my favorite team!”

“Oh, another Gryffindor Scot who favors Montrose,” Marcus said flatly, rolling his shoulders. “Big surprise, that.”

“Fuck off. Also, fuck you. Also, what’re they like?” Oliver’s eyes lit up as he rattled on; the effect was disconcerting on Marcus’ face. Fucking hell, he could not wait to get his body back and start restoring its dignity. This over-eager Gryffindor would be the death of him.

“I dunno,” Marcus settled on saying. “I’ll meet the team in July.”

“When—when we play, er, our teams play—will you introduce me? Show me around the stadium? Please?” Oliver’s words were so fucking earnest, painfully bare, and Marcus couldn’t look at him because he couldn’t handle seeing himself so stupidly vulnerable. 

He looked down at the toe of his boot, pressing it further into the locker. Maybe it’d dent the metal if he willed it hard enough. “Really?”

“Really,” Oliver confirmed. “They’re my childhood team, Marc.”

“Ugh.” Fucking Gryffindors. “Fine.”

Oliver grinned, too high on his victory to do anything other than call Marcus’ bluff. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a team you’d ask the same for.”

“Falmouth,” Marcus grit out, still staring at the toe of his boot. Oliver’s shoes were surprisingly decent, a welted country derby pair of boots that were a bit casual for Marcus’ posher sensibilities, but they were the type of thing that Marcus might wear to the family cottage during the summer, maybe. He wondered, briefly, what Oliver’s home was like.

Oliver laughed brightly. “You would! The Falcons, really.”

Burned by the implicit judgment, Marcus snapped, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“‘Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads.’ That’s, like, exactly you.” Oliver was smiling as he scuffed his heels along the floor, head bashfully ducked so that he didn’t have to look at Marcus as he spoke. “You grow up near there?” Marcus grunted his affirmation. “Good weather for flying.”

“Unlike fuckin’ Scotland. Cold all year ‘round,” Marcus groused. He’d layered two of Oliver’s jumpers today, a thin roll-neck under Oliver’s thickest non-Gryffindor wool option. It was navy and had a giant ‘O’ on the front and Marcus felt like a prat wearing it, but it was still winter and Oliver’s body lacked Marcus’ usual bulk to keep warm.

Oliver kept smiling, having noted the Weasley jumper when they first met up. He’d debated telling Marcus its provenance, but thought better of it—no need to start a fistfight in the wrong body. “You’ll still have your beaches, though, yeah?”

“Oi, like a beach is worth a shit up in Montrose. Nah, if I want a fucking beach day, I’m heading back south.”

Beside him, Oliver let out a sigh. “I’m gonna miss this.”

Marcus stopped breathing. He couldn’t, because if he kept breathing, he’d have either gasped or let it all out at once in one embarrassing go. His voice was just barely controlled when he spoke, and he felt his neck flush patchy and red with each word. “Miss… us talking?”

Oliver managed to meet Marcus’ eyes, familiar grey looking at brown, each staring from the wrong vantage point. “Us. Talking… yeah. It’s been, er, nice?”

“That a question, Wood?”

“What happened to callin’ me Oliver, Marc?” Oliver tugged a lock of hair and tapped his heels nervously on the ground, the rapid patter underscoring his words. “Seen your dick ‘n’all that.”

 _Fuck_. Wrong voice. Wrong face. “Oliver.” _Right name_. “Uh.” Fucking _hell_. “Still got tomorrow, though.”

* * *

The boys were summoned to the hospital wing after dinner, told to bring their usual clothes and be prepared to spend the night after swapping back. The potion was vile, Snape was sneering, and Madam Pomfrey withdrew after a cursory check of their restored bodies, leaving the two boys in the privacy of a back corner of the infirmary for the evening.

“I don’t think we needed to be here all night,” Marcus said, feeling a zing of surprise at the rightness of hearing his own voice again.

“I’m guessing it’s not for our physical health, no,” Oliver confirmed. He looked pained and self-conscious before he spoke further, and it was so right to see that emotional honesty on his face once again. “D’you want to, y’know, talk about it?”

Marcus snorted. “No.”

“Oh.” Oliver looked crestfallen, so Marcus gave a resigned sigh.

“I don’t want to. But. We should… do _something_ , y’know?” he admitted wearily. Really, the last possible thing Marcus Flint wanted to attempt was putting to words what it felt like to have Oliver’s body—his body, but not his mind, not his personality, not his soul—to himself for a whole week. Because Marcus didn’t want to be Oliver Wood. He didn’t want to _be_ the pretty boy, he wanted—he _wanted_ the pretty boy. 

He could admit that. Kind of. Just not with words.

So Marcus did what had always worked best for him and followed his instinct. Heaving himself up from the bed, he shucked his flimsy hospital gown and revealed himself, his real self, all pale olive skin and coarse black hair, developed muscles and thick limbs, to the boy who had been so very intimate with it for the past week. He smiled when Oliver’s face glowed red. That was right.

Sitting down cross-legged on his own bed, he beckoned, “Well? Aren’t you gonna?”

Oliver mustered his house’s courage and stood, stripping out of his own gown with jerky movements and baring himself. He was broad and tan and all soft browns, from his loose curls and limpid eyes to his faint freckles and flat moles, only the vibrant pinkness of his lips and cheeks disrupting the picture. He sat hesitantly on Marcus’ hospital bed, facing the other boy with his legs drawn up underneath him.

They stared at each other for a good long while before either moved. It was Oliver who broke first, scooting just close enough to take Marcus’ arm between his hands and trace the veiny muscles the same way he had during class. He laughed, briefly but delightedly, when he tried to close one hand around the swell of Marcus’ forearm and couldn’t. Marcus arched a single brow at the effort.

“Merlin, I missed that!” Marcus exclaimed in a harsh, excited whisper at the feeling of cocking his brow. “Your bloody face doesn’t move like I need.” He couldn’t help smiling like an idiot; he had his _presence_ back.

“You’re telling me you didn’t use my handsome mug to flirt even a little bit in a whole week?” Oliver grinned, once again incapable of a proper smirk to match his taunts.

Marcus rolled his eyes and huffed, but muttered, “It wouldn’t have worked on you, dumbarse.”

“Oh,” Oliver responded stupidly.

Marcus awkwardly shifted. He thought that his nudity really should bother him more, in front of Oliver, but what did it matter when the other boy had actually worn his body? False modesty wouldn’t save him anymore. He held his breath and extended his hand out to Oliver, watching for discomfort as he hovered over the other boy’s shoulder.

Oliver nodded once, and Marcus put his hand down. Marcus’ hand was warm, heat radiating into the delicate skin over Oliver’s collarbone as he traced his thumb along the faint scar there.

“Third year, the match against Hufflepuff,” Oliver explained. “Fawley cracked my collar with a bat and the bone tore through skin.”

“Gryffindor won that one,” Marcus recalled with a frown. “Weasley didn’t catch the snitch until half an hour after that bat foul.”

Oliver grinned madly. “I flew one-handed and mostly used my body to block shots, but we had a good enough lead before the foul to stay ahead.”

“You’re nuts,” the dark-haired boy grunted, to Oliver’s amusement.

He tapped Marcus’ nose on his own turn. “When did it start setting crooked?”

“Few years ago,” Marcus answered with a grimace. “Your elbow got me good during my OWL year.”

“Oh, the brawl when we both made captain?” The brown-haired boy’s eyes lit up at the memory. “Charlie really kept me in line. I don’t think you expected that at all.”

“I didn’t, or that your girls would take out Bletchley and Higgs.” Marcus paused, considering. “I should’ve figured Pucey wouldn’t be worth shit in a fight, though.”

“What happened to Pucey this year? Why aren’t you fielding him?” Oliver asked curiously. This, at least, was always a comfortable topic.

“Moved him to reserves when I retooled for strength,” the darker-haired boy confirmed. “He’s not worth shit in a fight.” Marcus smiled nastily, but Oliver only smiled that winning smile in return. “Why’s yours not crooked, then?” Marcus asked as he pinched the tip of Oliver’s nose, only to be swatted away by the keeper’s large hands.

“I—I ask her to break it again, if it sets funny,” Oliver admitted with a blush, the tips of his ears reddening as much as his pinched nose. He averted his eyes from Marcus’ shocked grey ones.

“You vain little shit!” Marcus blurted out, clapping his hand over his mouth as they waited anxiously to see if the matron had been roused. After a minute of silence, staring wide-eyed at each other, Marcus and Oliver giggled nervously.

“I’m supposed to be the pretty one,” the pretty one pouted. 

“Oi, and I’m the ugly one?”

“No,” Oliver soothed. “You’re the rugged one.” Marcus fucking preened. “Bloody wanker, I mean—” Oliver moved his hands to cup Marcus’ sharp jaw, one thumb resting in the cleft of his stubbled chin, “—you’re so _big_. I thought I was big, I mean, I am, but in your body… everyone else looks small, even me. I kept running your fucking shoulders into things because I thought I could fit somewhere but your body was too broad. I see why you don’t even bother moving over for people.”

Marcus was still in Oliver’s hold, resisting both the urge to pull away and to lean in. The middle ground had never before felt so treacherous. 

“Thanks for taking such good care of me,” he tried in a weak attempt at sarcasm. Oliver’s soft smile let him know the other boy wasn’t fooled; this unyielding hold was much too intimate.

“Tell me, then, that you didn’t fuck up my body,” Oliver challenged. His liquid brown eyes were too clever to deny, and Marcus let his gaze drop, briefly, to avoid them—only to find the naked expanse of Oliver’s chest. He snapped his eyes back up to Oliver’s face right quick. 

“Er.” Marcus faltered, feeling embarrassment for the first time tonight. Even in the soft wandlight of the empty infirmary, curtains and a dozen empty beds hiding them from the nearest soul, it felt much too intimate to admit to what he’d done, or, tried to do, with the most private parts of Oliver’s body.

Except—it wasn’t right to hide it from Oliver, was it? It was his body, and he deserved to know. As much as Marcus hated to admit it, it was—kind of, sort of—a violation to have even tried to touch himself while wearing another person’s body. They hadn’t exactly given each other permission to do _that_.

“I, er, tried to have a wank,” he finally spit out, pulling back just enough to break Oliver’s hold, thankful for his ability to beat back a blush. Oliver bloody Wood’s cheeks would have been luminescent at this confession.

“Only tried?” Oliver sounded almost… deflated as he lowered his arms, crossing them over his chest. It was absurd. Like he’d wanted Marcus to jerk off in his body. The steadily-creeping pinkness of his neck did not sufficiently dissuade from this impression.

“It, um,” Marcus stumbled blindly, “felt different. Not—not bad, but different, and that… that put me off.”

“Oh.” A beat passed while Oliver rubbed his neck and looked over Marcus’ shoulder, clearly not meeting his gaze. “Well. I did.”

Marcus took that like a strong punch to the gut, his breath leaving him all at once and he nearly keeled over. “You did?”

“You, uh, your—well, my method worked as well on your body as it did on mine,” Oliver admitted apprehensively, and Marcus did blush this time. “Are you mad?”

“No!” Marcus insisted, whispering urgently. “No, you—it’s fine.” It was not fine, because Marcus couldn’t stop the onslaught of fantasies based on Oliver’s confession. Oliver looking heatedly at Marcus’ body. Oliver touching Marcus’ cock. Marcus swallowed thickly, willing himself not to respond any further, even as he felt himself grow heavy and hot at the admission.

Emboldened, Oliver leaned forward into Marcus. There was no way to hide anything from him at this angle, and he felt the other boy’s stare keenly. “We’re alone, you know,” Oliver whispered fiercely. He put a hand on Marcus’ leg for balance as he continued to inch into the dark-haired boy’s space, his thumb grazing tauntingly along Marcus’ inner thigh. 

They were face-to-face, now, Oliver’s soft brown eyes boring into Marcus’ stormy grey ones as they silently warred over who would act next. Some touching, some curiosity could be excused—they’d worn the other’s body—but any further was a commitment. 

Marcus threw caution to the wind and stole the decisive move away from his companion, pushing forward to mash his lips against Oliver’s plush, pink mouth. Oliver giggled in surprise, losing his grip on Marcus so he tumbled into the other boy’s grasp, Marcus’ quick grab of his upper arms the only thing keeping Oliver from a face full of cock. He let himself be held up like a hapless puppy in that strong grasp, lewdly licking and nipping at the other boy’s mouth. Marcus couldn’t pull back without dropping Oliver into an even more compromising position, and with a groan of resignation, he gave in. Fucking _Gryffindors_.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Marcus laughed when they broke apart, Oliver nuzzling his nose against the stubble on Marcus’ jaw.

“Yeah, but you’re not gonna ask me to stop,” the brown-haired boy challenged. He dove forward, arms wrapping around Marcus as he tackled the other boy onto his back. Oliver resumed his languid pace, kissing Marcus’ nose and licking a stripe along his cheek as Marcus tried to act unaffected, biting back low whimpers. Marcus twisted his hands in the sheets beneath him so as not to clutch Oliver closer.

“Hold me,” Oliver whispered, sensing Marcus’ hesitation. He brought his own hands up to Marcus’ dark hair, keeping his face pressed close. Their kisses were clumsy and slow, with nothing to interrupt them and the full night at their disposal.

In this dreamlike haze, Marcus could almost close his eyes and forget the absurdity of the situation, lose himself in the warmth and wetness of Oliver’s mouth. It was then that Oliver began to shift above him, intertwining their legs.

Oliver Wood, gorgeous, devastating Oliver, was very naked and very much lying on top of him. Oliver Wood’s hard prick was just barely rutting against Marcus’ hip as he slowly ran his tongue into the other boy’s mouth. Fucking _Oliver_ , the boy with beautiful tan skin and soft brown curls was palming his chest and burying his face in Marcus’ neck.

Oh, _fuck_ , this was real. So very real, and not remotely urgent.

Marcus had thought that if they ever had anything together, it would be frantic, angry fucking in the changing rooms, or a vicious kiss in a broom cupboard. Not this—this unhurried, affectionate grinding, their bodies pleasantly cool and bare in the open air of the infirmary. 

“Oliver,” Marcus tested the name with a hushed moan, biting his tongue anxiously in the aftermath. Oliver pulled back, keeping a hand on Marcus’ cheek. The wet pink tip of his tongue was hanging out the side of his mouth, as though he’d been caught mid-kiss, and he was so damn cute that Marcus couldn’t stop a louder groan from escaping him.

“Marcus,” Oliver responded breathily, “Fuck, Marcus, can I—?” He moved his hips more insistently, rutting their cocks together, sending a delicious jolt through the other boy. Oliver repeated the movement, thrusting his hips regularly as he began to plead. “Please, Marc, wanna come with you.”

The high-pitched whine Marcus let loose should have been embarrassing, but Oliver looked so wrecked, and he was panting for breath, and he pushed back against Marcus’ arching hips so that any self-consciousness was soon forgotten in their exchange of grunts and moans. Marcus began to spiral, throwing his head back and gasping with each thrust. Each drag of his prick against the soft skin of Oliver’s flat stomach was beautiful and torturous and—

Oliver held Marcus’ arm gently and nipped at his wrist, his light breath misting across the thin skin. Marcus fucking shuddered, his grinding momentarily halted by the sensation. Overjoyed at the reaction, Oliver kept at it, placing light kisses on Marcus’ arm and tasting him with just the tip of his tongue, never using more than the faintest pressure to tease out jerky, erratic movements and uncontrolled moans from Marcus until, with a weak cry, he gripped Oliver’s hips hard and came with a final, needy thrust. Oliver followed with a groan soon after, his face buried deeply into Marcus’ neck.

Their stillness wasn’t much different than their rutting; their breathing quieted, and their voices disappeared, but their slow grinding shifted to soft caresses. Marcus soothed the place where he’d grabbed Oliver, and Oliver nuzzled Marcus’ collarbone, and their gentle fidgeting lulled only enough for Marcus to pull the blanket over them.

“So, uh,” Oliver had to break the comfortable silence with his gorgeous, stupid mouth, “What is, er, this?”

“This?” Marcus played dumb, blinking long and slow as though to challenge his bedmate. _Fucking say it,_ he thought hypocritically.

“This thing, you know, you,” Oliver gestured to Marcus, “me,” he turned his hand to himself. “Are we… something?” Marcus opened his mouth to be an obstinate git again, but Oliver shoved his hand in front of Marcus’ face to shut him up. “Fuck off and answer the question,” he groused.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Marcus complained, Oliver shooting him a warning glare. “Ugh.” The dark-haired boy rolled his eyes up, staring at the ceiling rather than looking at his companion. “I dunno, okay? I mean, this was… nice…”

Oliver scoffed. “Fuckin’ _nice_?”

Marcus threw a hand in the air, frustrated. “Fine! It was bloody hot, you’re fucking _pretty_ , but I dunno if there’s an us.”

The brown-haired boy looked hurt when he asked, “You don’t want there to be an us, then?”

“Nah,” Marcus was quick to correct, bringing his hand back down and laying it on Oliver’s shoulder, “It’s just—this past week was weird, right?” Oliver nodded. “Like, I liked you alright, actually. Didn’t think I would. You’re stupid over quidditch but I listened to your rants, so I’m stupid too, I guess. But it wasn’t really… normal. I’m not into my own face, yeah?”

“Aye,” Oliver confirmed. “I get that. But would you—would you consider it, Marc? Giving us a go?”

Marcus looked disbelieving, drawing his head back to study Oliver’s eyes. “You really want that? With me?”

“Why not with you?” Oliver looked endearingly defensive, like he’d fight Marcus for insulting himself, and it made Marcus want to do something embarrassingly sappy like kiss him again. He settled for gripping Oliver’s shoulder a bit harder.

“Slytherin and Gryffindor. Rival captains. Chaser and keeper. Fuck, two guys in quidditch. There’s… a lot of reasons, Ollie.” The nickname just slipped out. He hadn’t meant it. Marcus wanted to punch himself in the face, or, failing that, punch Oliver for hearing it and having the gall to fucking _smile_ at him.

“I don’t think we have to know that this is, like, a lifetime commitment, yet.” Marcus turned white and Oliver went a patchy red at the implications of that statement, but they managed to share a feeble laugh at the awkwardness. “And, yeah, last week wasn’t the usual way I’d get to know a cute bloke, but it’s what we got. So, like, Hogsmeade this weekend?”

“Uh, sure,” Marcus stammered. “Hogsmeade. Yeah, okay.” He couldn’t stop the smile forming on his face; he didn’t even want to. “I’m not going easy on you in our next match, though.”

“Fuck no!” Oliver laughed, grinning brilliantly in the low light, his hand finding Marcus’ and tangling with it. “Would be no fun if you went easy just because you fancied me.”

Marcus tried to act affronted, but his words tumbled out as fond amusement. “Oh, like you don’t, fuckhead. You asked me out!”

“Maybe,” Oliver said demurely, like he was divulging some great secret. Like he hadn’t done exactly as Marcus accused just a few minutes prior. And here, in the quiet dark of the castle at night, nestled together under scratchy blankets on a narrow hospital bed, it felt like the most magnificent of secrets to share. Oliver’s light blush, faintly pink underneath his freckles, was Marcus’ only warning before he asked: “Can I kiss you again?” Marcus just had time to nod before Oliver was pressing his lips against him, softly, sweetly, chastely, and full of promise.

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate your feedback! Also come say hi on [tumblr](https://phantomato.tumblr.com/).


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